


Bruises

by SadSasquatch



Category: Trouble in the Heights (2011)
Genre: F/M, Finger Fucking, PWP, Shameless Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-01
Updated: 2018-08-01
Packaged: 2019-06-20 08:13:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,414
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15529944
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SadSasquatch/pseuds/SadSasquatch
Summary: Romps with Trujillo leave you covered in bruises, but who are you to complain?





	Bruises

_ Uno. _

You don’t recall when he left this one: mottled purple, quietly fading brown, splashed on your jawline like splattered coffee. It’s tiny; a barely-there reminder, etched with teeth and tongue, that the only lips belonging on your skin are his and his alone. Bold, Nevada flicks his tongue over it again.  _ Remember this,  _ his mouth commands, even though he knows damn well your mind’s too wrapped up in savoring his calloused fingers drifting closer to the edge of your panties. You moan; Nevada smirks against your skin. Smooth, lazy, he rolls his tongue over your splotched skin once more before traveling south.

_ Dos. _

This one, spread across your collarbone, glares bright red against your skin; shiny, specked with marks from where he nipped. Still, it screams crimson like a stop light on a midnight street corner. Gently, he presses his lips against the bruise; smirks when you arch into his touch. This little gift, you remember receiving, but he doesn’t give time to relive the pleasant little memory.

_ Tres.    _

Red blooms over your skin, spreading  over the swell of your breast like a wave. You moan, strangled, needy. Heat pools in your stomach. Fingernails brush through his midnight hair, scraping lightly against his scalp. A silent plea to  _ just hurry the fuck up already. _ He smirks  against your skin, tongue dancing lightly just left of your nipple as he sucks a new mark in place. Oh, he knows what you want; he always does; but Nevada’ll be damned if he ever gives it to you easy.

_ Cuatro, cinco. _

Breaking from your throat like cracking ice, a strangled  _ ah, Nevada  _ pulls a chuckle rumbling deep from his throat. His rich voice swims over your skin; smoke curling over water. “You like that, hm, Mam í ?” Smooth lips pur against the goosebumps sprouting across sensitive skin. Your mouth gapes; a  _ yes, god yes _ dances on the edge of your tongue but before your words can roll through the electricity crackling thick between your bodies his tongue snakes to your pebbling nipple. A gasp rings out of your mouth instead. Soft and slow, Nevada drags his tongue in languid circles over the sensitive skin. He doesn’t need your  _ ‘yes’ _ s and  _ ‘oh lord, Nevada’ _ s bouncing off his bedroom walls to know his mouth is the best that’s ever mapped your body. 

He’s fluent in English and thinks in Spanish, but he lives and breathes in body language. Your nails digging pretty little crescents and valleys across his shoulders; your hips jerking close to him with every stroke of his tongue; wetness traveling across the baby pink lace of your favorite panties. That speaks loud and clear, tells him everything he craves hearing. 

He makes his living in little white lines but feeding your addiction to his teeth and tongue just to hear you whine and beg for him is his favorite deal. Lips curve into a smirk against your breast.

Trembles flood up and down your spine and you can’t help but wriggle against the teeth grazing your skin. Nevada frees you from the gilded cage of his lips with a wet  _ pop.  _ Achingly slow, his tongue travels over the swell of your breasts. He takes his time, leaving a glossy trail of wetness and goosebumps and gasping moans as he traipses the valleys and hills of your chest. A man could get lost in your soft skin, he thinks, but he’s toyed for long enough and your other nipple deserves attention from his teeth and swirling tongue, too.

_ Seis. _

Teeth sink into skin stretched over your ribs a little too deep. You’re halfway through a yelp of protest when Nevada drifts a calloused hand over the fabric of your panties.  _ Back, forth, back forth; _ your back arches in a perfect curve as you grind, desperate, against his long fingers. Rough skin toying with your folds is his apology and the white-hot waves sprinting through your nerves can’t help but scream  _ forgive and forget and lose yourself in this feeling.  _

Nevada crooks a finger, tugging your panties aside. Rough, he shoves his middle finger through your folds; you moan, knees crumbling as you fall ragdoll-limp against his chest. He’s sick of slow and soft and sweet; can you blame him? 

Heat bolts to your core as he curves his finger, the edge of his fingernail scraping your g-spot in the sort of perfect way that earns him a bite on the shoulder to stifle your needy whines. He pumps, in, out, in, out. Electricity crackles across your skin; liquid heat floods your veins. Your core tightens, winding and winding, more and more taut. Eyes roll back into your head; you can feel yourself tightening around his fingers. In your core the pressure keeps building, building, building;  _ God, he’s so damn good with those hands. _

Suddenly his thumb grazes your clit and the scream trapped in the back of your throat rips free, cracking through the heat between your rubbing skin. Nevada laughs, pleasure swirling dark and decadent like cherry wine through his shining eyes. It’s his favorite game; coaxing you to the edge, slow, languid, careful steps navigating your perfect body, and when you’re there shoving you so suddenly into euphoria your head’s spinning and eyes are filling with flashes of white and your lungs feel like  they’ll collapse you’re breathing so hard  _ and goddamn he’s so fucking good with those long fingers— _

Your orgasm hits sudden and severe, the heat pooling in your stomach bursting like a lightbulb fuse popping. Everything’s euphoria; your vision’s flooding in blurry streaks of white; every nerve sparks, burning, exploding like a technicolor Fourth of July night. You clench around Nevada’s fingers; he pumps lazily as you tighten sporadically around him, still winding his rough thumb in circles over your throbbing clit. It’s all too much and not enough and you can feel your pussy dripping over his hands and _ you love him you love him you love him—or at least you love his fingers winding you up and working you undone and god it feels so  _ **_good._ **

Whiskey laced with cigar smoke and spices leftover on Nevada’s breath from dinner flood your senses as he captures your gasping mouth. His tongue snakes across your bottom lip before slipping behind your teeth. Teasing, Nevada maps the roof of your mouth, tasting every dip and ridge as he guides your writhing body through the pleasure crashing haphazardly through you. Rough hands roam your body, trailing your cum over breasts and ribs and hips before he slides to a stop on your trembling thighs.

“D i os m í o, mi putita,” he teases, nipping your lips. “Te  _ mucho _ gustas mis manos, hmmm?”

“Nevada,  _ please _ …” you beg, fingernails trail to the boxers circling his waist. It’s all he’s wearing but he’s still far too overdressed.

He clicks his tongue, shaking his head condescendingly. A whine drags high-pitched from your throat; he catches your gaze and raises a cocky eyebrow, whispering silent warning.  _ You haven’t earned this yet _ , his dark eyes say as he rolls his hips against you. His hard cock presses flush to you underneath the fabric of his underwear and you can’t help the needy moan tumbling from your throat.

“Cari ñ o,” he purrs, tongue dragging across your jaw. Hands cinch around your waist. He trails a lazy path to your earlobe; when he’s just beneath the soft skin he nips.  _ Hard. _

_ Siete. _

“You think it’s so easy to get what you want. You have to handle more than that if you really want your pap í ’s cock so bad.” The hands grasping your hips migrate to slide back, squeezing as he explores the curves of your ass. Again, he nips along your jaw. Massaging hands turn violent; Nevada gives you a rough shove, forcing you against his mattress.

“Put your legs up,” he commands, hardly giving you time to adjust before he’s crawling over you, hunger in his eyes. “Now…” he rumbles, dipping his lips to your collarbone. Hot breath fans your skin and the coil in your core starts winding up again. “Count your orgasms for me, putita.”

You choke on a shaky breath, about to protest, beg him to  _ just fuck you already. _ His tongue’s already slipping down, though, dipping in the pool of your belly button, and you know better than to disobey Nevada’s orders. Your thighs tighten around his face as hot breath fans your dripping pussy; moaning, you begin.

_ “Uno.” _

**Author's Note:**

> Written for a friend's birthday. Figured it was time to brush the dust off it and put it somewhere other than Google Docs.


End file.
